


This must be the place I waited years to leave.

by huntingosprey



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:32:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2250876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huntingosprey/pseuds/huntingosprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People threaten Holmes all the time to make him stop investigating, some times they try threatening Watson and very occasionally they go further than threats. Holmes tries to deal with the aftermath of threats gone very wrong and finds solace for a while only in duty and vengeance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This must be the place I waited years to leave.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ancalime8301](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/gifts).



> For ancalime8301, Congratulations on being a JWP winner!

My hands are not even faintly steady, and my eyes are blurred with tears as I reach into my wardrobe for the set of clothing I had prayed devoutly I would never need to wear for him.  News will have run like wildfire through first the hospital, and then onto Scotland Yard; it will not be long before Lestrade, and whoever he could not compel to remain behind, will be hammering on my door demanding to know if the news is true.

I am grateful to Mycroft for stepping in and taking charge of affairs, for I fear I have not the nerve to carry out the plans that had, of course, been made.  Wat…Joh…we both knew our lives were in danger, that every case we took on could lead to this.  By mutual consent, some years ago in the aftermath of my return, we had sat down together and discussed our wishes and drawn up our respective wills so as to spare the other unnecessary grief should the worst happen again.

That all my skill and cleverness could not preserve my most beloved friend from the hands of those who sought to dissuade us from this investigation by harming him is a bitter blow, a goad to my soul which will compel me to even stronger efforts.  Those who have removed my Boswell from my side will feel my undimmed fury.  The criminal world will whisper of my revenge for years to come.  My mind suddenly realises that the cuff links which I am attempting to push through my half attached cuffs are the pair he gave me for Christmas, and all at once my composure shatters and I collapse onto my bed, and the stress of the last week drowns my mind in the memory of the day this horror began.

We had been apart, working both ends of a case as we so often did, when one of my irregulars had come racing into the tavern where I was engaged in watching our quarry.

“Sir! Sir! Please, sir, the doctor says you must come now sir!”  Wiggins' voice is shrill and desperate as he tugs on my jacket sleeve

Mindful of my persona I shrug him off and growl, “what is it this time, boy?”

“Sir, the doctor, he,” he gulps a lung full of air and blurts out, “ it's Master John, sir, the doctor says he’s dyin’ sir!”

For a moment, the world goes dark and I feel my blood freeze,.  Then I’m bolting for the door, Wiggins on my heels, to find Cartwright and Jones waving frantically at me from the top of Mycroft’s carriage.  To hell with my disguise and the case, Watson has been hurt badly enough to need urgent medical care.  I fling myself in, not caring who sees me, Wiggins follows me in, and the driver whips up the horses the moment the boy's trailing foot leaves the ground.  We ride in silence; the three boys crowded in with me wait with fear in their eyes - fear for and of me and my reaction, and fear for Watson.  I could see that they all hid signs of a violent struggle, and deduced that they had tried to help Watson in whatever confrontation had occurred.

With a sob, I drag myself back from the memories of days spent at Watson’s side as doctors and surgeons muttered over his condition which, despite strenuous efforts, continued to decline.  Mycroft hovered imposingly, an endless procession of Yarders and Irregulars kept a discrete watch on me, and I was blind to all else but the battered form of my companion.  He never woke, I never got to take my leave, and there was no hope of a last confession of the feelings that exist between us.  I sat at his side, his hand in mine, and suddenly where there should have been another breath there was stillness, and the pulse under my fingers faded.

Mycroft’s hands rest gently on my heaving shoulders “Mon petit frère,” his hands tighten their grip for a second.  “I'm sorry, Sherlock, but Inspector Lestrade...”

He need say no more.  I have obligations, duties, vengeance to attend to.  I rest my hands on his arms in silent acknowledgement and rise to my feet.  Mycroft solemnly finishes dressing me, cuffs, cuff links, cravat and pin, waistcoat all carefully smoothed into place.  He hesitates then a moment before drawing a well-known watch from his coat pocket - Watson’s, stolen by those who had set upon him.

“My people found it, Sherlock.  When you are over the first shock, we will set out on the trail.”  His voice is heavy, the solid promise of unlimited support.  He knows none better what John Watson meant to me.

The watch settles solid and warm in my hand, not substantially changed from last time I handled it, a tangible memory of my friend.  I slide it into my pocket, the small replica of the 66th Berkshire cap badge swinging from the chain as it always had.  My jacket slides on, silently settling round me like a shroud, and with leaden feet and an empty heart I shuffle out of my room.  Lestrade spins round at the sound of feet on the carpet, and even to his unobservant eye my appearance must say all that I cannot muster words to tell, for his hat drops from suddenly nerveless fingers and his face pales.  Watson never spoke to me of what happened upon his return from Switzerland; even the  _thought_  of those days made him shake, and a melancholy would settle over him as thick as any pea souper, so I have had to rely on my imagination for the reaction of friends to the news.  Here before my own eyes, in my own rooms, I see what must have been Lestrade's reaction to my death.  Mycroft, displaying a rare amount of physical energy, gently shoves me towards my chair before striding over to propel Lestrade onto the sofa, and then fixes a glass of brandy for each of us.  Lestrade’s hand shakes only fractionally less than my own as we raise our glasses in silent salute, and none of us breaks the silence that smothers the room as we sit and remember.  An unknown time later the sound of Mrs Hudson returning shatters the gloom.  God, I must tell her, somehow I must.

Lestrade flicks his eyes between us and tosses back the remains of his brandy before reaching into a pocket and withdrawing a mourning band.  “I...I  _had_  hoped to be wrong, Mr Holmes.”  He settles the band around his arm and stands.  “There are no words for your loss, sir, so I won’t try to find any.  Every man of the force stands at your call should you need us.  And with your permission, sir, I’ll inform Mrs Hudson of the tragedy.”  He clears his throat.  “If you’ll forgive the liberty, sir, you look like  _he_  did when he came back from Switzerland, and in no state to see to anything.”

I can only stare blankly at him, at his understanding eloquence.  Watson always said Lestrade was a good man and a good friend, and I cannot disagree with that assessment.  I nod and he offers Mycroft his hand and moves to leave.

Abruptly I stand and offer him my hand, “ Tha... _thank you_ ,” I manage to say, voice thick with weariness and grief.

He takes my hand in both of his and grips it firmly, the solid offer of support made physical.  The door closes behind him and I sink back into my chair.

“He’s right, Sherlock,” Mycroft rumbles.  “You  _are_  done in.  If you’re going to do this, then may I recommended sleep, and possibly some food?”

Exhaustion and the brandy have more than half put me in the arms of Hypnos, and I smile wanly as Mycroft heaves himself out of his chair and picks up the blanket Watson keeps in our parlour for those times when I fall  asleep in my chair, too worn out by my case to make it to my bed.

*     *     *     *     *

It is many hours later that I struggle back to wakefulness.  My head feels thick, and it takes me an unpardonable length of time to work out that Mycroft is talking to Mrs Hudson by the table.

“How difficult it will be.”

“Nonsense, Mr Holmes. It was the right thing to do. 

“They had long decided you could not in conscience.”

“I understand.  You can rely on me, Mr Holmes, to do my part.”

“Thank you Mrs Hudson.  Dr Watson has clearly stinted in his praise of your sterling qualities.”

“Mr Holmes!  My blushes.”  A pause, during which I can feel their mutual stare on me.  “You  _will_  make sure he takes care, won’t you, sir?  Without the good Doctor about to keep him right, I  _do_  worry.”

“I will do all I can Mrs Hudson.  Under normal circumstances I would never admit this, and he would scorn to hear it, but I am extremely fond of my only brother.”

Mycroft is right; he and I are not demonstrative by nature, so to spare Mycroft and myself any more sentimentality I stir noisily and blink at them.  Mycroft is not fooled for a second, but I see that in the hours I have slept someone has brought him clothing, as he now wears full mourning as does Mrs Hudson.  I expect to find drapes up at all the windows and a wreath on the door.  Mrs Hudson brings a cup of tea over to me, a knowing look in her eyes.  Good.  Mycroft has informed her of what’s afoot.  I thank her for the tea, and she departs without offering me any trite words.

“Well then, mon frère, shall we begin?”

I cross to the table, set down my tea, and take Watson’s watch from my pocket.  “Where?”

Mycroft smiles.  It is not a pleasant smile, but I have no pity for those at whom it is directed.

It takes three months, three very long months of toil and danger.  There are long nights arguing evidence and deductions with Mycroft, days of trailing round London in a variety of grimy disguises and despicable personae.  Hard and disagreeable as the work is, it is preferable to Watson’s memorial which takes place in the second month of our investigation.  Watson had been adamant in his wish for a small funeral with just myself, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade in attendance, and we had all honoured that a week after he left me. 

He and I have become celebrated figures in our own way, and the clamour for some wider form of public service could not be ignored.  No matter how much I railed that he would not have wished any such thing, that he had in fact  _forbidden_  me to allow any fuss to be made over his memory, all of it was swept away by public demand.  In the end, so many people wanted to honour his memory that there is no room in the church for anyone to stand, and people are crowding round the door.  Mrs Hudson sits beside me in the front pew, both of us still in the deepest mourning, she sobbing quietly into a handkerchief while I sit rigidly staring straight ahead as the mawkish plaudits by men who did not know my Watson even half as well as they flatter themselves they did wash over me.

After the service Mrs Hudson does me the inestimable kindness of pretending to faint, so giving us an excuse to remove ourselves from the affair.  Mycroft’s eyes dance with mirth as he aids me in getting my ‘distressed and overwrought’ landlady into a four wheeler.

“Well played, Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft comments when we are far enough away from the crowd to be safe.

“Honestly,” Mrs Hudson replies, her tone prim and annoyed, “it’s all well and good that so many people want to remember the good Doctor, but really I think many of them were there just so they could  _say_  they were there.”

I nod and pray devoutly that Watson wasn’t so importuned after my own funeral.  Mrs Hudson shoots me a sidelong look and remarks, “you’ll need to hire a secretary, Mr Holmes.”

“Whatever for?” I ask astonished at the very idea.

“To deal with the correspondence,” comes the tart rejoinder.  “All the letters and cards that we’ve been getting.”  Her eyes glint with humour.  “You’ll need to start another volume of The Index.”

I gape at her, totally at a loss, and Mycroft has to smother his laughter in his hands.  It had not occurred to me that there would be any letters of condolence, or that the reason clients weren’t hanging on my bell was that they were allowing me to withdraw and grieve - never mind the fact that Mrs Hudson would be standing between the world and my - mostly empty - rooms at 221b.  In the rare moments of rest, I could not bear to inhabit our old rooms - they spoke too loudly of what was missing.

There are few days that go by without some reminder of how deeply entrenched in my life Watson had become, how valuable a companion I had gained in him.  The practical aspects are, of course, the most immediately obvious - another body to share watch duty, a stout heart and steady hand to keep my back in a fight, and a sure hand with needle and thread to sew my wounds  _after_  the fight.  All these things I must now find replacements for, having had so much given freely out of friendship and loyalty for so long that I find it hard to rely on a man whose services are bought, and so take on more than is wise.  I know Watson would scold me for it but I can not, I  _will_  not, jeopardise this case now by trusting the wrong man too far.

Less obvious, but more keenly felt, are the valuable gifts of his mind and personality.  Mycroft and I are all hard-edged brilliance; observation, facts and deductions flow like water in a stream. But Watson's less sharp mind and broad experience of life and the world were so often to me like a lens, focusing my thoughts, on many an occasion offering me a perspective on the facts and people that would never have occurred to me.  If there is one thing above all others that I miss it is Watson's unique gift of understanding me; no other person, except possibly Mycroft, understands my moods as well as Watson.  He knew almost by instinct when to speak and when to be silent, when to leave me to my own devices and when to watch like a hawk and swoop to stop the worst of my excesses. 

As Watson will say -  _would have said_  - there can be few men less given to superlatives and flowery language than I, but truly in John Watson I had found the other half of my soul.  Almost from that first day we fitted together like the cogs of a watch.  But now the watch is broken, the cogs are parted, and I am left alone.  Such thoughts and rememberances drag at me, slowing down and clouding my mind, so I do my best not to dwell on what I have lost. But some days, when I return to a cold and wretched bolthole with holes in my skin and the emptiness of my life, the memory or warmth is to much to resist.

But those dark months are done and the business is almost over now; I can see the finishing line of this case. Bradshaw and I are huddled together in a doorway, poised to act, and I still find it unbearable that it is not my Watson pressed close beside me as we wait.

After all the pains and sorrows this case has brought me, after hours of brain work and days of legwork, a few brief minutes of alarm and struggle resolve it all with no more damage than a few bruises.  There is no dramatic reveal of the facts, no laying out the clear chain of logic and deduction.  It is a case that will never see the light of day.  A dark matter of treachery, greed and the basest nature of humanity.  Mycroft and I are silent on the ride back to his house, all the ends but one tied up neatly.  It is that one loosely flapping thread, like the skein of a man’s life in the hands of the fates, that tugs at me now.

Mycroft is only just through his own door when his butler hands him a letter, some matter of state that he has too long neglected I suspect, and I do him the courtesy of ignoring him in favour of stripping off my coat and muffler.  His hand clamped iron hard around my arm is a shock, and I spin round to find him thrusting the note into my hand before ordering my bag packed and the coach readied.  Perplexed by this sudden activity, I glance down at the note and feel my legs go weak under me.  After so long I had almost given up hope, almost.

The drive is too long for my nerves, which have been strained beyond breaking ever since Wiggins burst into the public house.  All the possible scenarios run through my head time and time again.  I shift and fidget on the coach seat like a nervous schoolboy.  Dawn is setting the eastern sky on fire when I reach my destination, a quiet discrete clinic outside the smogs and dangers of London.  The coach has obviously been expected and watched for, because almost before I step down a man is hurrying down the steps to meet me.

"Mr Holmes, you've timed it well.  He was awake for the first time yesterday - awake and aware, if only briefly.  It's a promising sign after all these weeks of fever.  I expect him to wake again this morning. 

I nod sharply.  My voice will betray me if I speak, so I concentrate simply on hurrying alongside the man as he leads me towards the back of the house.  The end game of this great affair netted all those even peripherally involved but the man in the bed before me.  The one victim who lived can hammer home the last nail in several convictions.  I say he  _lived_ , but it was touch and go for so long that Mycroft and I had quite discounted him as a witness who would be available for the trial.  Looking at him now, most men would think him a sufferer of some long illness, not the victim of a murderous assault.  The bruises that were livid across his face the last time I saw him have gone, and only the finest of lines in the skin of his hands show where a knife had been thrust in deep and torn brutally through flesh.  I settle softly into a chair in the corner of the room and wait. Those who know me only from Watson's stories may  be surprised to know that I do not have much tolerance for the act of waiting.  I can  _endure_  it stoically enough during a case, but in all other instances I find it beyond intolerable.  In this instance, however, there is no question of not waiting here for the man in the bed to wake from what I perceive is sleep rather than the blankness of unconsciousness, and I set myself to endure this last trial.

The sun is blazing strongly through the windows of the room when I awake from the sleep that had crept up behind me like a ruffian and proceeded to cosh me on the head.  Blinking the last of the miasma of dreams away, I hear a faint chuckling.  My man is awake!  My head swings sharply to his bed, and I find him propped upright, eyes shadowed with pain and the deep fatigue of a long illness, but aware and sparkling with mirth.

"Mr Holmes," he says in a voice rough with disuse, "I trust I have not wasted too much of your valuable time."

I smile at him.  "Not at all."  My heart sits lighter in my chest hearing that voice again.  "If you are feeling up to it, I would appreciate your help on a few, minor, points in this last case."

He nods, smiling back at me.  "I'm not sure how much help I could possibly be given how long I've clearly malingered here."

I shift to sit on the bed, no doubt breaking many hospital rules, and social ones as well, but damn them all, I so very nearly lost him.  "As I have often said, my dear Watson, you are an unparalleled conductor of light and I find that I have missed talking things over with you."

A thin but steady hand rests on mine for a moment before Watson settles back in his pillows.  "Then by all means, my dear man,  _talk_.  I will be allowed to do little more than listen to you for days to come, no doubt."  

He doesn't sound distressed by the idea of such enforced idleness, and the pulse under my fingers is strong and steady, washing away the memory of it stuttering to a halt, however brief that halt may have been.  As I begin to outline everything that he has missed, I find that now I have a solid assurance he will be there to listen I find the idea of a long period of rest appealing as well.  There will be uproar and confusion enough on our return to London, but for now we have both earned a measure of peace.


End file.
